


Beauty

by Angie13



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angie13/pseuds/Angie13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the early days of the Siege of Troy, Helen reflects on her situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_alchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_alchemist/gifts).



Beauty, she thought, existed in the same in-between realm as all gifts from the Gods, as all dreams. It held no inherent goodness or wickedness unless the Gods so wished. If Fate chose to weave one’s shining hair through a crooked weft and then cut it short before the piece was finished? Well, what could a mortal do? Even one hailed far and wide as the most wondrously fair woman ever, even one who could claim partial birthright to Olympus… 

One whose very beauty had made her nothing but a target for round-about holy jealousy and the heaviest burden a woman could bear.

Helen sighed and turned her eyes further towards the shoreline. The thick walls of Troy prevented any clear view of the ocean and the invaders but she knew all too well how a fine Greek ship looked, riding easy in the water with the waves lapping at her hull. She could easily recall the glint of sunlight over polished bronze and the movement of horsehair plumes in the breeze. Such things bored her as they always had but, at least, they were part of the home from which she had been stolen. That had to signify something, did it not? The nostalgic air of childhood and the rocky hills and green pasture of home? On the other side of the high walls before her, people camped and waited, having travelled from over the ocean for her. The bravest warriors from all of the kingdoms, brought together by the promise made to her great father and her wealthy husband.

She thought that her marriage had finally removed her from prize-fighting.

She had been very wrong indeed. Then again, she had become accustomed to being wrong in matters of her life and her heart.

The sound of footfalls crossing fine tiles behind her sent unwanted tension shivering up her spine but years of that experience had left her well-trained in her responses. Gentle as the sound echoed in this instance, Helen never allowed herself a reaction to such things. To react only invited direct recognition and, quite often, recognition was worse than anything else. She remained seated just as she was, one elbow resting lightly on the stone of the window’s sill, her soft cheek cupped in a pale hand.

Her other hand slipped silently into the folds of her robe, fine fabric barely shifting as her fingers brushed the smooth handle of the dagger concealed there.

“He seeks you.”

Andromache’s tone, politely even and controlled, said far more than the three simple words did. She waited two beats of their hearts and then approached to stand beside Helen at the window. Nothing more was said for long moments as Helen pretended not to have heard the implied order. If pretending was a form of lying, Helen thought wryly, then she was exactly what the people of Troy said of her. Queen of lies, temptress of hearts, bearer of bad tidings. 

Finally, she turned to the other woman, a princess in her own right and lovely as dusk. Andromache truly shone with her own simple beauty. Not the gold of Helen, thankfully, but the fine-worked white clay that warmed so much more readily to the skin. It felt like blasphemy to consider the Trojan princess and her loveliness in equal light to what the Gods had deemed as most beautiful but Helen could not bring herself to care about their decrees any longer. Not when she was reduced to nothing more than a pretty plaything for their game. “Who does?”

A quick sideways glance from dark eyes reprimanded her nearly sulky tone but Helen refused to bow and, finally, the faintest of smiles touched Andromache’s thin lips. “Paris, of course.”

“Of course.” Helen straightened further and drew back from the window. Without any further words, she cast her eyes downwards and smoothed the linen of her skirts, absently adjusted the lay of her gold-worked belt. Not for the purpose of vanity, never. She knew well that time was needed to school her features and hide her thoughts once more. Andromache was almost too clever. She would know the truth in one searching glance.

Who else would be seeking Helen? No one but Paris. The House of Priam had come to view her as an inconvenient guest at best and a foul temptation at worst. She had ears as well as a brain. It was impossible to miss the whispers. Only Paris gave softness freely and even that began to feel false as of late. When she fled with him, she had been sure of the love and warmth drawing them together but now, here in his homeland, the dawn-shaded mist seemed to clear. Worse, having watched the honor duel between her lover and her husband... She shook her head slightly. Worse yet was the realization that Paris had charms only in face and form and words; he lacked the sort of inner spirit she herself felt and noticed surrounding her. Of all of Priam’s children, her lover held the most beauty but the weakest heart. It was a sobering realization.

Even Deiphobos - loud and crass and uncharmingly aggressive - could claim a measure of heart. 

Helen lifted her gaze from her skirts to meet the other woman’s dark eyes with sober contemplation. Hector, fine and brave and all of Andromache’s joy, overwhelmed with his own heart. In that true spirit, he even found the courtesy to treat her, the interloper and his city’s certain doom, with kindness. His gentle wife followed his lead and Helen found herself wishing it could be more than simple duty that drove the darker woman to speak with her. A longing settled low in her stomach when she watched the two of them together in those brief moments between war councils and battles. The tenderness in every touch exchanged sent shivering fire through her veins. When Andromache held their round-cheeked son and Hector kissed her forehead before donning his helmet and striding once more to the front, something moved her to step forward and stand at the other woman’s side on the wall. Once she had even ventured to speak hesitant words of comfort and faith in Hector’s certain return that evening.

The memory of the strange look Andromache gave her, neither angry nor grateful but something as tangled and misty as her beauty itself, closed Helen’s lips to any further words when she next joined the tall Trojan princess at the wall. After that, she felt confined to the offer of silent support only. Once or twice, she dared reach out a hand to the other woman, her back straight and her face impassive.

Once Andromache reached back without looking and their hands touched. The warmth of her skin and the way their fingers fit together sent a pleasant shock through the system and Helen had squeezed the proffered hand in wordless gratitude.

Helen shook herself. She was drifting again, she scolded, letting her thoughts get away from her and wander down paths best left unknown. This here was her circumstance. Within the walls of Troy, wedded to a beautiful coward, held as a prized trophy, warred over like a desired tract of land. She could treasure the solicitousness of Priam and the kindness of Hector and the quiet courtesy of Andromache but they could never belong to her. She was Helen of Sparta, Helen of Menelaus and of Laconia, not Helen of Troy. Never Helen of Troy.

The light pressure of a hand on her shoulder made her start and an audible gasp slipped from between her lips as Helen turned her head in surprise. Andromache stood close, her hand warm through the linen, and she smiled ever so slightly. Then, before Helen could find her tongue, the dark-haired princess slid her touch down shoulder and arm to tangle their fingers together. She squeezed and Helen closed her eyes in faint agony of feeling. 

A brush of lips against her cheek caught the breath deep in her throat but she refused to open her eyes again until she sensed Andromache drawing back once more. Only then did Helen relax enough to turn and look at the other woman in too-honest confusion. “Andromache?” she whispered.

Andromache smiled her strange little smile and suddenly Helen knew the meaning behind it, recognized all of the other times she had seen it before on the Trojan woman’s lips. She felt a mirroring smile curve her own mouth and a warmth spreading low in her stomach. “Paris seeks you,” Andromache repeated, “but come to the weaving room when you are done with him. I have a new pattern of cloth to show you.” She inclined her head gracefully, turned on her heel, and strode quietly from the room.

Helen watched her go without comment, nothing more than the continuing smile in her expression. Then, slowly, she lifted her hand to touch her cheek. Perhaps beauty fell into neither good nor bad, she thought, but it could be both light and dark and, for this, the Gods were wiser than she had believed. Golden Helen, dark Andromache… There were always two sides to a coin and a story and a debate. If only you remembered such things, you could find a measure of peace, Helen thought. Perhaps, in the end, she would be Helen of Troy.

At least for the space of this tangled, unhappy, blissful dream.


End file.
